


We've Come a Long Way, Baby

by wildpeace



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clintasha - Freeform, Deaf Clint, F/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and i love clint having a farm, and i love them having lucky, but close enough, domestic not-quite-bliss, i don't even care if this is about to get jossed, i will ship clintasha til i die, old clint barton has a farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildpeace/pseuds/wildpeace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been five months since he's seen her.  Since he'd walked from Shield, from Fury, from travelling the halls expecting to see people who had died from his arrows.  She'd called it giving up, then.</p>
<p>Clint and Natasha find their way back to each other.  Or rather, she finds her way back to him, as he always knew she would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Come a Long Way, Baby

The chicken wire has come loose. He first realises when he's woken from his nap on the porch by a clucking, and then a thrilled, exuberant bark, and then - because he fell asleep with his hearing aids in and ow, that's rubbed against his ear weirdly - the fluttering of nervous wings and the awkward bounding footsteps of a half-blind dog. 

"Lucky," he growls as he pulls himself to his feet, following after the dog, who follows after the chicken, and doesn't he just feel like he's in a damn nursery rhyme? Happily, Lucky obeys better than he sees, and turns back around to come to Clint's side. Lucky's mouth is still open - panting in the direction of the ruffled feathers of the first chicken and the beady gaze of the other two who have managed to escape, pecking at the ground for seeds or worms - but when Clint runs his fingers through Lucky's scruffy neck, the dog yips lightly.

Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, Clint yawns. Dawn had seemed early this morning, but the cows needed milking and the sheep feeding. "Pincer movement, right Luck?" he says simply, nodding his head towards the birds. Tipping his furry muzzle up towards his master, Lucky gives one short bark, seemingly in agreement before tearing off the the left and straight into the path of the chickens, who scatter across the garden.

"Chickens, no," Clint sighs, watching as they cluck and flap, Lucky seemingly thrilled to have the birds and feathers whirling around him. He doesn't attack the chickens, but barks at them with joy, jumping amongst them, watching them fret and fuss. 

"I am getting a damn sheepdog to replace you," he threatens, pulling Lucky back by the collar and scooping up the nearest chicken - a banta hen called Tess - when he is startled by a voice behind him.

"You look like you could use a hand."

The voice makes him spin on his heel, chicken falling from his grasp, clucking loudly as though in scolding at being so unceremoniously dumped. Lucky stays by his side - grip on the collar still - but barks happily at the visitor.

It's been five months since he's seen her. Since he'd walked from Shield, from Fury, from travelling the halls expecting to see people who had died from his arrows. She'd called it giving up, then; she'd been hurt. That he could walk away so easily from the things they had shared, from Strike Team Delta.

_It doesn't exist anymore Tasha_ , he'd told her. _We're not a team. Not since the Avengers. Not since Coulson. Not since Loki_.

She'd smacked him hard across the face then, and he'd accepted it. Anything so he could avoid seeing the tears brimming in her eyes or the way she'd clenched her fists at her sides. 

Seeing her standing across from him, he is struck by the difference. Her hair is stripped of colour and hangs in blonde waves to her shoulders. Her shoulders, which she holds stiffly, as though in pain, though it may just be the reminder of their last conversation. He considers that for a moment until she shifts her stance, and he sees a dot of crimson just starting to bloom and stain the (very fitting) flannel shirt she has pulled on.

"You're hurt," he breathes abruptly, letting go of Lucky, who bounds back towards the chickens to continue his game. Clint takes no notice, stepping instead towards Natasha, who just for a second recoils at his approach, but then seems to relax as he touches her elbow. "Tash..."

She melts, then. Against him, into him, into the soft, dusty soil, into herself. She grasps at his shirt, burying her face in his neck. "You stupid fuck," she whispers against his skin. "You absolute, stupid fuck."

Running his hand over her shoulder, he tries to ignore her wince, or the way more blood seems to blossom on her shirt. "You got shot," he realises. Tugging the collar of her shirt aside, just an inch, he spots the white bandage strapped across her collarbone. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Pulling back, she reaches up, rubbing a thumb across his scruffy, stubbly chin. "Everywhere," she tells him. "None of it exists anymore."

*

Inside, he strips her from her clothes - dusty jeans and blood-stained shirt and underwear he tries to ignore- and runs a bath (praying that the water heater will last through the fill). He watches her slide into the heat with a gentle moan. There are no bubbles - he's not that prepared - but he sits on the wooden floor next to her and watches as she rubs a soft washcloth over her skin. She hisses, moving her arm, tugging on her injured shoulder, so he takes the cloth from her and continues her cleaning. He squeezes it over her shoulders, taking care as he rubs it down her biceps, to her wrists and hands. Lifting them out of the water, he kisses each finger, right at the tip, feeling the gun calluses against his lips. 

He doesn't argue when she reaches up, tangling her hands in his hair, even though they are damp and he's sure it can't be comfortable.

Her lips are on his before he can protest. Warm, a little chapped from the sun, perfect level of pressure. Familiar. Tinged a little with the taste of desperation and something that he can't quite recognise yet, but might be longing, hiding under the ever-present scent of pine and spice that is simply her.

"Help me out?" she murmurs against his mouth, and he has to comply. Gently taking her hands, he helps her stand, wraps her in a large towel (warmed from the boiler) and pats down her glistening wet skin. The bleeding of her wound has stopped, but he makes her sit on the bathroom counter anyways while he rewraps it. He assures himself - and her, though she doesn't seem that concerned - that none of her stitches have pulled - they haven't - and is relieved that he won't have to play field medic. He's been trying to get away from dreams of her bloody and wounded and crying out in pain.

(Of course that's how he knows it's a dream. In reality, Natasha cries in silence).

He lets her get dressed alone. He goes outside, putting the chickens away and fixing the broken wire of the coop, which takes a good half an hour (he makes Lucky stay inside - he doesn't need that help). When he comes back in, it's to find Natasha sitting in front of the unlit fire, rubbing her hair with the towel. It's weird to see it blonde, but he doesn't particularly notice that. Instead, it's the t-shirt that she wears - his - and the boxers that she wears - also his - that get his attention. 

"You want to talk?" he asks, setting the handful of fresh eggs he had scooped from the hen house down on the counter. "Or do you want food?"

She's quiet as she stands up, folding her damp towel against her body. "Not hungry," she says quietly. 

Nodding, he places the eggs in the fridge, scrawling the date on the box in his illegible hand. "So...talking?"

She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. "Not really in the mood for talking either."

He can tell something is wrong. Something, or everything. She avoids his gaze, turning instead to look out the window. "There really is no light pollution out here huh?"

Wiping his hands on a dish cloth, Clint raises his eyebrow. "You came all this way just to star gaze?"

The window seat next to the bay window looks out over his land and is piled high with cushions, and she spots a copy of The Idiot in the original peeking out from beneath a purple stitched pillow - perfect for hugging. She reclines into the seat. "It's a bonus," she admits, pulling the book out and shooting him a look that he pointedly ignores. "But you know why I'm here." 

"I do, huh?"

He watches as her fingers rustle through Dostoyevsky's pages, the sound familiar as music. Scraped knees and shins peek out from beneath his stolen clothes, and her large green eyes watch him from under thick, dark lashes. 

"Yeah...I missed my husband."

*

He doesn't let her work for a week. 

When they are woken by the mutual irritation of the bright morning sun peeking through the curtains and the alarming sound of the cockerel, and he slips out of bed with a groan and a muttering of _stupid sunrise...stupid cows...be back_ , she thinks longingly of the days when they wouldn't leave bed for a whole weekend. Touching his hand, she cocks her head, a recognised sign for 'need backup?' (because he hasn't put his hearing aids in yet) but is met with a shaking of his head. "Stay and sleep," he says, somewhere between ordering and pleading, and presses a long kiss against her lips.

She threads her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, kissing him deeper, and he almost forgets the work he needs to do. Her skin is soft and smooth beneath his hands and he has missed her kisses so fiercely. Pulling back, he rests his head against her sternum, pillowed by her bare breasts, and just breathes heavily for a moment. He's quite glad he can't really hear himself, because he knows he must sound like a desperate, wound-up idiot.

"I have to go," he tells her, murmuring into her skin, rubbing his thumb across her hip in an hypnotic sweep. "Otherwise Dotty 'nd Coco'll be pissed."

It takes him another beat to rise, cursing as he pulls on boxers, a t-shirt, and grabs the box from his nightstand that houses and dehumidifies his hearing aids. Wincing as he twists the ear moulds into place in his canals, he hooks the microphone over his ears. They're not the fancy 'in canal' kind he wore when he was working at Shield, but a hardier, more obvious pair. He slides into his jeans, then shoves feet into boots, lacing them with his back to her, as though just to look at her is far too tempting. 

Dressed, he lifts her hand in his, presses a kiss to the centre of her palm. "I'll be back," he promises. "Go back to sleep."

He doesn't add the you're safe here, but she hears it anyway as he exits the room. Sliding over in bed, she buries her head in his pillow, breathing deeply in his scent. She's fallen back to sleep before she ever hears Lucky barking from the porch. 

*

She wages war on the carrots. Or rather, she wages war on the rabbits who have decided the carrots are the most delicious thing on the whole farm. Clint tells her that he'll shoot them with his arrows if she wants, straight through the eye, they can even use them for dinner, but she demurs. He notices she has been avoiding bloodshed. She's happy to feed the chickens, but won't watch him wring their necks and pluck them. She'd rather be out in the fields.

So she's planned an elevated vegetable patch, telling him exactly how to cut the wood and watching him split it with his saw. She likes it when he works with his shirt off, and he likes when she potters around in cut-off jeans baring most of her tanned legs. The rhythmic banging of the hammer is evidence of her healing shoulder, although when she thinks he isn't watching she rubs at the abused joint and winces. He tries to leave her to it, not to fuss, but considering she hasn't really spoken about anything, about what has brought her here, he can't help but let it worry him.

Her brow is knotted, sweat curling the hair around her forehead. Her toes wiggle in her boots (half a size too big, two pairs of Clint's socks on her feet) and she concentrates hard. He can tell she's in pain and trying to ignore it.

"You sure you don't want a break Tash?"

She sighs, placing the hammer down next to her knee. He knows she's tired when she simply nods.

Letting him take her hand, they both kick boots off at the door and he pulls her into the kitchen. There's fresh bread (from the farmers' market, where he sells his eggs and some of his vegetables) and soup made from the first batch of leeks and potatoes, and Clint steers Natasha into one of the kitchen chairs. Lucky, sensing food and an easy target, curls up by her feet and smiles winningly with his doggy smile. Smirking, she pets him with her socked foot, and he whimpers happily.

"He missed you, you know?" Clint says, handing her a bowl of freshly heated soup and a chunk of the bread. She knows she won't be able to eat it all, but she'll try her best to avoid his worried gaze.

Blowing across the spoon, she sips the soup carefully. It's perfectly seasoned and filling, and she licks her lips. "I missed him," she answers carefully, knowing that Clint is studying her words and her face with focus. "I...I don't like being apart so long."

Sitting across from her, he takes a bite of his own bread, chewing slowly, swallowing. "I don't like it either."

Taking another mouthful of soup, she stares down at the swirling bowl. "Nick isn't dead," she tells him, in a whispered voice. 

Reaching across the table, he takes her hand, "I know."

Looking up, her grass-green eyes are ringed red. "Clint...I hacked Sheild's records. Nick isn't dead but...neither is Coulson."

His spoon clatters against the side of the bowl.

*

The truth comes in drips and drabs. Clearing snails from the lettuce, she tells him about Rogers, and the Lemurian Star. How at first it had all seemed like a normal mission, intelligence gathering, saving some hostages, mocking the shit out of Sitwell for being such a patsy. 

Sewing beetroot seeds and spinach she talks about things going strange. About Steve's memory stick and the hospital and Nick's so-called death. About Project Insight. The targeting. 

In bed, she lets him kiss the old bullet scar as she tells him about The Winter Soldier, and then beats her fist hollowly against his chest. "You heard, I know you heard," she whispers angrily against his skin, biting the flesh near his shoulder as she struggles in his grip. "Why didn't you come? You knew where I was and you left me." There are tears in her voice; frustrated, hurt tears, and her fingers grasp hard at his skin. 

"Natasha," he tells her rolling them over, pinning her wrists by her side so she can't hit him any longer. "You might not believe it, but I had orders. I knew Nick wasn't dead. I was packed and halfway across the state before I got the call - I wanted to be there with you, of course I did. But I get this call and next thing I know you and Steve are on the run and the government is after you and you don't even call me? I had to hear about it from Hill? Who, by the way, ordered me to stay where I was, keep comms open and wait."

Her voice is small when she responds. She manages to wiggle a hand out of his grasp so she can push her fair hair back from her forehead. "She didn't tell me that."

Sighing, he wraps her up in his arms. "Surprise. Shield higher-ups don't tell us everything. Breaking news."

"Shut up," she murmurs against him, nuzzling against the worn cotton of his t-shirt. "I wish you had been there."

Sighing, he closes her eyes, pressing his face into her hair. "Me too."

*

The day after, she disappears into the fields. He doesn't follow her, knowing she needs to be alone.

Lucky pines, winding around and around Clint's feet, barking occasionally as though to voice his displeasure with her absence. Every time they hear a car go by down the dirt road, his golden head pops up and he wags his tail with excitement, only to whimper and whine again when it doesn't make her return. 

Clint scratches the dog behind the ear and quietly sympathises, but takes his frustrations out on the goat pen instead. Inside, the goat eyes him warily, with cold, black eyes. 

The summer is ramping up. Clint can feel the sun burning the back of his neck, and places a hand there just long enough to feel the satisfying heat of his skin. He knows he should really get a hat, but he can't quite get his head around being the farm guy in the straw hat yet - he's not that far gone. Yes, his day may revolve around early rising cows, escapee chickens and a very ornery goat, but the straw hat is one step too far.

Or so he tells Lucky.

Lucky just yips and goes back to chewing on his own foot.

Clint naps through the hottest part of the day. There's a hammock on the porch that he'd strung up his first month there, and he crawls into it with a beer sweating in his hand. Boots kicked off, he wriggles his toes in the slight breeze, and wonders how Tasha is doing out in the fields with nothing to drink. Then snorting to himself, he realises Natasha has been in much tighter spots than a mile from home in the middle of farmland. She'll probably be fine.

Still, he sleeps and dreams fitfully. Of her crying out, bleeding, hurt. Of Lucky, whimpering over her fallen body. Of Captain Rogers, holding her, broken and in pieces. _We did all we could son_ , he solemnly tells Clint, even though Clint is probably a good ten years his senior, _it just wasn't enough_.

Clint wakes with a start and a nauseated feeling in his gut. He downs the rest of his now-warm beer, feeling the lukewarm trickle down his throat and stares across the corn. Lucky, thinking Clint has seen something, pulls himself up, wagging his tail so it beats against the wooden floor of the porch with a heavy thump. His mouth hangs open happily, and he flicks his gaze between Clint and the crops.

"Sorry boy," Clint says, reaching down to scratch his ear. "Not yet."

The truth is, he doesn't know when she'll be back. Maybe later, maybe tomorrow, maybe in the week. The only thing he's sure of is she will come back. She was honest when she spoke about missing him, about hating having to go through such monumental things without each other. Every night in bed she would cling to him, as though afraid he will be gone when she wakes up. He's pretty sure he's been holding her just as tight.

Lucky looks unimpressed. He bounds out to the crop line, barks a couple times, and then runs back to Clint's side looking hopeful. Then he waits, and tries this trick two more times before curling up at Clint's feet, whimpering and disappointed. 

Clint stays on the porch, watching the clouds gather over head. He can tell a storm is brewing from the burgeoning purple look of the clouds, and it's this that prompts him to move, settling the animals in their houses and pens (getting a kick in the shin from Maria the Goat for his troubles). Wincing and cursing, he is limping back to the house, Lucky at his feet, when the clouds break open.

It's not a gentle rainfall. It's violent and furious. Rain bursts from the clouds, soaking him in seconds, right through to his skin. Hair plastered to his forehead, he watches as Lucky yips, running forward and straight in the open front door. "Baby!" he calls after the mutt, pushing his hair back, water dripping from his eyelashes.

He thinks about following the dog in, but fragments of his dream keeps coming back to him, and so he can't stop his feet moving. He has to know she's okay, even if she doesn't want to be with him right now. Heading up the incline he had seen her climb that morning, he curses as the rain falls into his mouth and eyes. "Tasha!" he calls ahead of him, hoping for the best, because the land is large and sweeping and she's had all day to go anywhere amongst it. "Natasha!"

"Clint?"

The voice in reply makes his heart stutter, and he hadn't realised how much the dream had been niggling at his gut until he catches sight of her blonde ponytail, slicked through with rain. When she pushes past one of the branches of the bushes, ignoring the way it scratches at her skin, he can take in the whole of her. Cotton shorts stuck to her skin with water, shirt practically see-through, boots in one hand and a pair of fish in the other. "I found the river," she tells him, as though it isn't a three mile hike away and she isn't barefoot and shivering with cold. "Caught us dinner."

He can't help but laugh then, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He can offer her nothing but body heat, and it's patchy at that, but she leans into his side gratefully. "I thought we could cook them with some of the lemon rosemary from the herb garden."

"And the finger potatoes?" he agrees. 

"Drink a bottle of wine," she adds, smiling up at him with a bright, honest smile. "In front of the fire."

He can tell the day away has done her well. Both of them have always worked through their issues best with time and patience, and someplace safe. "I think we can manage that," he agrees. "Take advantage of the bad weather."

"Mmm," she agrees, slipping her free hand into his back pocket. "Take advantage of something."

*

The rug in front of the fire is one of her favourite things in the whole house. It's soft and fluffy and so large that they can both spread out on it and never be touching the wooden floor. Natasha arches her back into the thick fabric and moans, catching her breath as Clint smiles smugly, resting his chin on her hip, her legs either side of his body. "Warmed up?" he asks, nonchalant, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Pretending to think, she shrugs her shoulders, pulling them both up to sitting and straddling his lap. "Maybe. It was pretty cold out there."

His broad, warm hands span across her back as he kisses her soundly. She can taste herself in his mouth. Sliding further down into his lap, can feel how warm and hard and ready he is for her. She knows he's been feeling as though she's been keeping him at arm's length since her arrival at the farm. Kisses and holding have been freely given, but apart from a handful of occasions, she's been shying away from a more intimate touch. 

Tonight, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"I don't want to go back," she tells him, his lips working down her neck and his hand between their bodies. She gasps against his touch, her voice almost desperate. "I said I had to find a new identity but I don't even know who I want that to be anymore."

"Tash." He pulls back, looking at her face plainly, before kissing her on the lips. "Your home is here. And...you're my Tasha. Mrs Natasha Barton, if memory serves - I mean, we did drink a lot of champagne that night. But...maybe you get to be her for a while. You've waited long enough."

Clint thinks if she was any other woman, she might have cried then. Because dammit, he meant what he said, and talking about feelings is hard for him. But Natasha, being Natasha, simply kisses the life out of him. When she pulls back, he's dizzy and lightheaded. "I'm yours," she agrees. "And you're mine, okay? We don't belong to anyone else. We've given our time, done our duty. I just want you, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees readily, as he slides inside her warm, waiting body. "You and me, the dog, the chickens, the cows, the sheep."

"And the goat that doesn't trust you."

He laughs, holding her hips still, tasting her lips. "Why do you think I called her Maria?"

*


End file.
